


The Cold, Hard Ground

by forparadise



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rain Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forparadise/pseuds/forparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What am I supposed to do with you, then?"</p><p>Chris happens upon Jackson when they're both in a state of disarray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold, Hard Ground

**Author's Note:**

> First part in the series of smut fics I plan on writing for TW - one for each of my favourite pairings. Chris and Jackson first, because they're at the top of the list ;)
> 
> This was written with the full intent of them both definitely wanting it, but perhaps some parts may be read as non-con? Just a heads up.

* * *

 

 

It's eight thirty in the evening when Chris Argent pulls his SUV into the Beacon Hills high school parking lot, located next to the sports field. He turns the headlights off, but keeps the ignition on, as he leans back in his seat and runs a hand over his face. There's a quarter full fifth of bourbon in the passenger seat next to him, and without looking he grabs for it and twists the lid off, tipping the bottle to his lips slowly and tasting the bite of it against his tongue for a moment before swallowing.  
  
The field is dark, save for the scattered reflection of the safety lights shining here and there on the slick with rain grass.  
  
He can't be sure what he's looking for, knowing full well how ridiculous it is to be here given the hour, and the storm. But he's buzzed, and mostly had just needed to get out of the house. Away from his father, away from _everything_ , to clear his head. But despite the attempt, his mind was still strained with thought - mostly of Derek Hale. The recurring source of almost all his distress lately, and the best plan he could come up with was, maybe, to come here and find Scott and get the information of Derek's whereabouts out of him.  
  
He had known somewhere, though, that Scott would obviously not be here. Nor would anyone. So his shock is genuine when he notices a figure out in the middle of the field; sitting, or kneeling - he can't be quite sure.  
  
His first instinct is to take caution - understandably; who or what would be out there in these conditions?  
  
His curiosity is peaked though, so he revs the Chevy's engine to life and pulls out into the field.  
  
It's not the smartest idea, he realizes, when the tires spin out on the grass a few times, but he gets as close as he can, and stops the SUV with the headlights facing the hunched over mass.  
  
He opens the door and steps out, recognizing the person immediately when he looks up with squinting eyes at the car headlights pointed his way.  
  
"What the hell are you doing out here?" Chris says over the pounding of the rain and the rumble of the engine.  
  
Jackson looks over at him with only vague recognition, and Chris steps forward, grabbing him by both shoulders and hauling him up to his feet. Jackson seems disoriented, and there is confusion plastered across his features.  
  
"You know, finding you out here in the middle of a field, during a rainstorm, at night, doesn't exactly look good for you right about now. With everything that's been going on."  
  
Jackson's look quickly turns defiant, one of a teenager caught smoking in the family's backyard, yet he leans a shoulder heavily into Chris, an attempt to gain his bearings.  
  
"You come all the way here just to scold me?"  
  
His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are red and puffy, but Chris doesn't think it's from crying. It's from use - like the boy hasn't stopped, or slept, for days.  
  
Chris' hunter instincts are screaming for him to take action. It's almost too perfect - the timing, the setting - even in this state he would have no problem covering his tracks. He could drive away and hear about it on the morning news the next day over a cup of coffee. And then he could rest easy knowing that one more monster was gone from the world. One more monster that could never hurt his family again.  
  
But there's something about the way the boys shirt clings with a heavy wetness to his shoulders and chest; the way the rain water is trickling over his parted lips and down his chin; that makes a lifetime of hunting prowess, along with basic common sense, seem like an endless font of useless knowledge floating about in his head.  
  
Maybe he was just tired, himself.  
  
His hands tighten on Jackson's arms, and he can feel the hardness of him under the slick wet hoodie. The rain is coming down in big, almost cartoonish droplets, and even though his skin is buzzing with a hint of numbness, he swears he can feel each one that hits him. He can feel them running down his brow slowly, catching in his eyelashes, blurring his vision each time he blinks.  
  
He turns Jackson to the Chevy in an attempt to lead him towards it, but Jackson's feet plant as firmly as they can into the soft mud.  
  
"I don't want to..." he mutters, face turned down, and Chris eyes the back of his head warily,  
  
"Just get in. I'll take you home."  
  
"I can't..." Jackson says, voice barely a whisper, and he leans back enough so Chris can smell the earthy dampness of his hair, so that his own warm breath prickles at the side of the boys neck.  
  
Jackson doesn't react when Chris' hand drifts down to steadily grip just below his elbow; his lips moving against the boys ear;  
  
"What am I supposed to do with you, then?", he can barely recognize his own voice, and he regrets the words as they slip out of his mouth.  
  
Jackson takes in a shallow breath, but he neither says anything, or makes eye contact. He remains still and expressionless.  
  
_Leave him here_ , Chris thinks; _he's a big boy, he can take care of himself. Leave him here and go home to your daughter. To what you have left of a family._  
  
Even as he thinks this, one hand reaches around to brush the soaking hair away from Jackson's brow.  
  
Jackson doesn't respond to the touch, but he also doesn't make a move to pull away. Chris turns Jackson to face him with a sharp tug,  
  
"I said I'm taking you home. Just, get in the car." Chris says, and Jackson finally meets his eyes. Challenging.  
  
"Fuck you." he responds, rigid, but without much conviction. The boy seems tired.  
  
His defiance makes Chris' skin prickle, and without any rational thought he forces the boy back a few steps to where the Chevy is, Jackson's back sliding against the wet metal behind him.  
  
"I said, get in the car..." despite the command, Chris holds him there firm, and Jackson's lower back gives slightly to the curved hood of the SUV. He takes a deep breath and he's watching Chris' mouth; Chris can feel his body tensing, muscles pulling tight, as he holds his ground.  
  
"And I said, fu -" he's pronouncing each word carefully, but Chris' mouth is on him before he can finish. He feels Jackson's body relax as soon as their mouths are together - which is good, but wasn't the reaction he was expecting, he realizes hazily.  
  
He moves his hand to the side of Jackson's neck, but besides that they're barely moving; only their mouths; wet, dripping with rain water, Jackson's tongue thick and hot against his. And the only rational thought on Chris' mind is that he must taste and smell like such an old man - such a _father_ \- to him; Whiskey on his breath, spiced cologne on his neck.  
  
The concern, if it could be called that, slips from his mind quickly enough, as Jackson pulls back to take in a breath, and although half-lidded from the rain, Chris can see the fervor in his eyes; the utter desire.  
  
Jackson's hands move up his waist, not timid, or explorative, but desperate. The boy isn't a blushing virgin - not that Chris had expected him to be - and his hands move under Chris' cold, drenched t-shirt and along his torso, which is hard for his age.  
  
Chris takes Jackson by the hair with one hand and presses their mouths together, Jackson's breath hitching against his lips. He hears the hood of the SUV press in as Jackson leans his elbows into it, metal groaning, but Chris stays heavy against him, moving his hips slowly and evenly against the others, pushing him back against the hard, slippery metal of the Chevy.  
  
The rain is loud, pattering against the ground and the three tons of metal behind them. Chris feels his feet sinking into the mud of the field they're standing in, and it's then that he registers Jackson shuddering between him and the car, both of their clothing soaked and clinging to their bodies.  
  
He reaches over to open the door, and without a word guides Jackson back into the SUV, hand still tight in his hair. Jackson falls back onto the seat and Chris crawls in over him, slamming the door behind them to block out the rain. Already the seat is squeaking with the friction of their wet clothing.  
  
Jackson touches Chris wherever he can; on the tight muscles of his lower back, fingers gripping his ass.  
  
Chris savors the attention; it's been a long time, he realizes, since he's felt this way - this desired. That's the most he allows himself to think about it though, and he refuses to let the memory of his dead wife worm it's way into his mind.  
  
Jackson pulls out from under him and they struggle to switch positions, but once they do, Jackson is on top of him, legs tight around his hips, and he grabs the hem of his hoodie and thin t-shirt under it with both hands, pulling them up and over his head with a bit of effort.  
  
Chris admits himself a brief moment of admiration, and moves his hands up the boys torso slowly; the skin feels damp and clammy under his fingers. For a moment he imagines scales instead of flesh beneath his fingertips, but the thought is blissfully pushed from his mind when Jackson begins to move his hips tightly against Chris' - once, twice; and then Chris sits up and wraps one arm around his waist, pulling their bodies together.  
  
They move back so that Chris is against the door; Jackson's hands are already busily unclasping the man's belt, and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans.  
  
He leans his head back against the slick window as Jackson reaches into his jeans, and, for the first time in a long time, Chris remembers what it's like to let his guard down.  
  
As Jackson's hand moves steadily over him, Chris busies himself with Jackson's jeans, tugging the tight, wet material slowly down the others thighs. The heat from their bodies is already filling the car with moisture, and as Jackson positions himself he pushes his forehead against Chris', and Chris can't help but moan deep in his throat as he feels himself slide into the boy.  
  
Jackson moves the best he can in the tight space, his breath hot against Chris' cheek, his forearms braced against the slippery window behind Chris' head.  
  
It's not long before they develop a pleasing, if not awkward, rhythm; Chris can sense the satisfaction Jackson gets just from having control; something in his life, Chris figures, that he must have taken for granted until recently.  
  
Jackson comes first, the slick friction between them hot and engulfing, and too much to handle for long.  
  
Chris' fingers dig into Jackson's hips when he comes not long after; and when Jackson collapses on top of him, fatigued, Chris considers, for only a moment, wrapping his arms around the boy. Maybe even kissing him on the head, or running his fingers through his hair. Instead he let's the boy rest there for what could only be a few seconds, but seems like a lot longer in the close stillness of the closed up Chevy; then carefully, but authoritatively, pushes the boy up and off of him, sitting up to regain himself.

 

* * *

 

 The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, and Jackson steps out of the SUV to straighten his clothes and fix his hair as best as possible. Chris takes a moment to maneuver up into the front seat, behind the steering wheel.  
  
He's a bit shocked when Jackson slides into the passenger side without seemingly any hesitation, and when he closes the door behind him and clicks the seat belt into place, he gives Chris a look with clear eyes.  
  
"You did offer me a drive home earlier, didn't you?" he says, calm, but Chris swears he can sense a bit of challenge there. The fact that Jackson is treating him as a non-threat, all things considered, is a bit of an annoyance to him, but after a moment his gaze turns to the windshield and he puts the Chevy into drive once again.  
  
He drives Jackson the few blocks to his house with only a bit of struggle, at first, getting out of the soggy wet field. The two don't speak a word during the drive, and the quiet that fills the empty space is not a comfortable one.  
  
Jackson steps smoothly out of the SUV without looking back, and Chris drives away before he reaches the front door.  
  
The idea of going home to his daughter is too dismal to even consider, so instead he drives; allowing himself to think with a steadily sobering mind, and to consider missed opportunities, for the first time that night.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading !


End file.
